


Release

by youcanleaveyourcapeon



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: F/M, Imagined Non-Con, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-18
Updated: 2016-10-18
Packaged: 2018-08-23 05:22:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8315515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youcanleaveyourcapeon/pseuds/youcanleaveyourcapeon
Summary: (Prompt Fill #20)Director Krennic prefers not to use his hands to masturbate like an ordinary man, but instead has a special droid constructed to perform this service for him. It is a cold, clinical interaction until he meets [a grown] Jyn Erso and begins fantasizing about her during the act.





	

In Director Krennic’s rooms, even the unending thrum of the space station’s engines was muted, distant. The white walls and sparse, elegant furnishings held only silence between them, calm and cool, with the temperature set to exact specifications. The cleaning droid had already powered down: even with the Director’s stringent standards on hygiene and cleanliness, there was never much for it to do. This was not a place of revelry, or rage, or passion: it was for sleep and study, and in a small way, a sanctuary. A place for Orson Krennic to strategise, to rest, and to find his own controlled release. Only the cameras ran, silently, endlessly watching, recording. For security, for the Empire, for his safety, and weren’t they the same thing?

The muted sound of footsteps at the door: the night’s death trooper guards were taking their position outside. The doors swished open, and Director Orson Krennic strode in.

Immediately, and from complete stillness, unobtrusive and efficient activity began all around. A protocol droid stood to attention in the entranceway: silent too, programmed to wait for instructions, not to ask pointless questions. A slim metal hanger folded out from the wall, ready for the cape the Director was already unfastening. Neatly recessed into the living-room wall beside a stack of mugs, a small caf maker began to whir. A chair rolled out neatly into place, in front of a sleek electronic desk with a console just humming into life. And the white, polished surfaces ran with restless shadows as the Director paced around the relatively spacious apartment like a caged animal.

Orson Krennic dragged both hands through his silver-brown hair, mussing its orderly wave. It had been a trying day, a day of a million problems. Endless reports of inexplicable technological glitches and failures; of infuriating, abject human incompetence. Potential sabotage? His pride in the Empire’s unassailability denied it; his suspicious instincts told him anything was possible. Anything. Especially with Galen Erso’s wildcard daughter leading the charge.

Jyn Erso. Director Krennic frowned at the thought of her, eyebrows pushing together over cold blue eyes, mouth setting in a firm line.

He walked over to the caf maker and took the mug proferred by a sturdy mechanical arm. Took a first sip, swallowing a grimace along with the taste. He made his way over to the chair, setting the mug down on the gleaming surface of the desk. Stared at the console as he registered more disheartening communications about the Rebellion. And there she was again.

The image showed Jyn in motion, looking back over her shoulder for enemies as she ran. Brown hair flying around her face, jaw set in steely determination, piercing green eyes. Slim body in flight, legs racing, chest pumping. Krennic could almost taste the adrenaline.

She’d looked like that last time he’d seen her. When she’d nearly killed him. Cold fury, apprehension, the thrill of the hunt, full of life even as she fired death at him. It had been an experience. So many elegantly crafted assassination attempts, so many firefights in space … it had been some time since he’d been on the other end of a simple blaster, and looked into the eyes of the person trying to end his life. For all the ensuing retaliation, the rage, the summary executions of the guards and intelligence agents stupid enough to let her get that close, Krennic knew that if any expression registered on his face when she looked down the barrel of her blaster that day, it was surprise. Even curiosity - at this young woman with his death in her sights, whom he only later found out he’d met before, long ago.

Jyn Erso and her grudge weren’t his problem anymore. Security and surveillance had been stepped up even further, and she had since joined the rebellion, yoking her spirit and her talents to their wretched cause. He was Advanced Weapons Research, concerned with superstructures and massive firepower, world-ravaging bioweapons and lethal droids. She was a grubby malcontent with a planet-sized chip on her shoulder, fallen in with a rebellion that was hopelessly outgunned and hopelessly outclassed. Let some enterprising young officer come up with a plan to make his name by wiping her and her rabble out for good.

Krennic impatiently flicked the screen off, drummed his fingers on the darkened console. He couldn’t concentrate. It happened from time to time – times of irritation, times of uncertainty. Times, frankly, when he felt he was carrying the entire bloody Death Star itself on his back. Times when he longed for some sort of release. Smash something. Kill someone. Fuck someone. Not for the Empire; for himself.

Unlike Vader, he was, after all, only human. A fact that never failed to disappoint him. What a wonder to not just create machines, but to be as efficient as one. To map out strategy with mathematical precision. To have mastery over a rage that sometimes threatened to consume him along with all his carefully laid plans. Over a mind that still fell sway to greed, to fear, even sometimes to loneliness. Over a body that sometimes, he’d realized, just needed release.

He was only human. But a human with an unparalleled understanding of the technological. Some time back, he’d devised a system just for this need. Krennic lay back in his chair, which automatically reclined just so, pressed a combination of numbers into a keypad on the armrest, and turned to face the nearest wall.

* * *

The apartment had a cleaning droid and a protocol droid, the first powered down, the other on standby. Now a third droid rolled out from a discreet compartment in the wall: one Krennic knew was not like any other in the Imperial fleet.

It wasn’t much to look at. Just a sturdy cylinder, taller than it was wide, with grey, gleaming metallic sides, another cylinder for a head. Those sides, however, were seamed with hatches. Compartments, each designed by Orson Krennic himself, built by machines which were themselves built only for that purpose and dismantled after.

The droid itself had only one purpose: to sate the base human needs of the Director of Advanced Weapons Research, so that he could focus on what was really important. His work.

It rolled to a stop in front of Krennic’s chair, awaiting instructions. He tapped a few buttons once again, and then, finally, reached down to unfasten his trousers, where a semi-erection had sprung to in anticipation.

A compartment flipped open. A tubular mechanical arm unfolded itself, opening out to a peculiar looking device, a sort of cup: narrower where it sprouted from the arm, opening out to a wider mouth. Up close, it was a work of intricate perfection: made of dozens of delicate metallic rings strung together by slender supports. All seamlessly jointed, all flexible: another tap of a button saw ripples run up and down the cylinder, as the rings opened and tightened, opened and tightened. Krennic tapped another button, and a hiss came from the mechanical tube: grey foam began filling the cup, pushing through the gaps between the rings, only to stop expanding and shrink back, separating and congealing so it covered only the inside, outside and rim of the cup, an almost transparent covering of a glistening, soft, smooth material. The rings flexed again, an obscene ripple through gleaming grey skin. It was ready.

A couple more buttons: and loud moans burst the silence of the apartment; writhing blue bodies filled the still air. The droid’s head housed a projector, and this was a carefully curated display of sexual imagery. The Empire’s databanks had yielded plenty of material collated by less discreet, more openly depraved officers. And Krennic knew how to cover his tracks. Some of it had been saved for blackmail: a useful bonus.

He leant back in his chair. A full-size erection was now poking through his opened trousers, straining at his underwear. He slid the briefs down, freeing his cock amidst a kaleidoscope of sexual scenes. Breasts, shapely legs, open mouths contorted in desire and in pain; the sound of gasps, of slaps, of heavy breathing. Some of the bodies that slid past were slim, some were curvy. Some were marked with bruises, some tied with restraints, some slick with oil, or maybe even blood.

No words. No eyes. This wasn’t personal.

One more button to key in a setting, and Krennic fit himself into the cup, stifling an indrawn breath as it began to move, gently at first, the rings squeezing and up the length of his shaft, the slick material exuding its own lubricant. He leaned back into the chair, holding onto the armrests as the cup gripped him, the pressure running from the base of his cock to the very tip and down again.

As usual, he tried not to think about how undignified he must look. This was a simple necessity. He watched the undulating bodies slide past him, through him, a montage of the private kinks of countless Imperial officers. A holographic orgy, with himself an invisible voyeur, pleasuring himself amidst the secrets spilled from the Empire’s darkest minds. The thought was usually enough to get him off, along with the nudity, however intangible. It had been a while since he’d actually felt a naked breast, had a real woman moan in his ear, buck under his hips. The thought of his own exquisite self-control often helped to get him there, too.

But today was proving difficult: even under the expert ministrations of his specially programmed droid, Krennic could feel his cock beginning to soften. He shut his eyes against the dancing images and instead called up memories of the feel, the smell, the taste of sex, from his few carefully chosen dalliances and discreet quick fucks through the years. Hands that had stroked or clawed down his back, legs that had wrapped themselves around his pumping body. Faces from the past. Smirking mouths, tumbling hair, bedroom eyes.

Eyes full of fury and fear.

His cock jerked with sensation, balls tightening, as Krennic sat up gasping. How had Jyn fucking Erso got back into his mind? Her green eyes had flashed at him, brighter than all the holographic depravity the droid could muster. A deplorable lack of self-control, and yet … Krennic stifled a moan as the device, ever intuitive, began to squeeze harder. He was fully erect again.

Perhaps this was an avenue worth exploring. Scientifically.

* * *

Krennic leaned back into the chair, hands gripping the armrest firmly. Closed his eyes. And called up the image of Jyn Erso again, this time deliberately. The one from today’s communication. The wild hair, the piercing eyes, the lithe body twisting as she ran from danger.

His body responded, cock tautening under the masterful touch of those dozens of tiny rings. Up and down, up and down, squeezing, sliding, pumping. Krennic could hear his own breathing now, even below the moans still echoing uselessly in the apartment. He slammed a button on the armrest: the generic voices and images disappeared.

Just him and Jyn.

The rebel, in her dirty rebel’s clothing. What would she look like without it? Krennic began to undress her in his mind, tearing at her clothes, baring her slim, pale, graceful body. Indecisive, he couldn’t decide whether to make her willing or unwilling in his fantasy. Green eyes flashed with fear, with hatred, with timid desire, with feral lust.

The mechanical cup gripped him harder as Krennic shifted in his seat. Silver-brown hair fell forward across a brow beginning to sheen with sweat. His lips curled on a silent moan as he stretched back, neck straining against the headrest, body curving back sinuously.

Jyn lay naked on the battlefield, trussed in those same restraints from the databanks of one particularly kinky and since deceased officer. Completely at his mercy. Krennic imagined striding over to her, standing above her with his cape billowing behind him and Death Troopers flanking him. She looked up at him with unbridled loathing.

The mechanical arm pumped away.

She looked up at him with unbridled desire.

The cup continued to slip and slide, the tiny rings at the tapered end tightening over the very tip of his cock as Krennic groaned out loud, writhing in his chair.

Jyn Erso looked down at him with an arrogant snarl, and he was the one who lay trussed on the ground. Completely at her mercy. His pale, freckled body bared to all the troops. His arse cold and white in the harsh light, his hair scruffy and falling to his eyes. His cock on display to her, rising to meet her even against his wishes. Divested of his cape, of his uniform, of his soldiers, of his weapons. Of his authority, of his pride. Wrapped and presented like the spoils of war, to be used or discarded.

Jyn stood above him in her dark Rebel’s regalia, a simple blaster in her hand. As she pointed it at him for that final shot, the one that would end his life and his life’s work, her fiery green eyes lit with unmistakable triumph.

“Ahhhhhh…!”

Director Orson Krennic came with a wrenching, almighty moan, body jerking in the seat, outstretched arm smashing the half-full caf mug over the console and to the floor. His hips thrust as his cock spilled its seed into the slick grey mechanical tube, its delicate rings constricting and widening around him even in the throes of climax. His face was pink and flushed, his silvered hair stuck to his forehead, his mouth twisted in a prolonged groan as the industrious little droid milked his shuddering body, in one of the most intensely satisfying orgasms of his life.

* * *

All he could hear was his own gasping breath, echoing in a room whose continued silence slowly began to register again. Krennic opened his eyes, pupils still dilated in a sexual haze. He wasn’t on a battlefield, he wasn’t tied up, and he wasn’t with Jyn. He wasn’t with anyone but his droids; the protocol droid, he now noticed, stood near him in what could almost be described as a questioning posture. Probably thought he was having a heart attack.

The other droid stood silently before him, its stilled cup still lightly holding Krennic’s now softened cock. A trickle of semen dripped from the glistening grey rim of the cup; the rest having been taken by the tube.

The caf mug lay in pieces on the floor, in the middle of a dark puddle of liquid, its acrid scent mingling with the tang of sex in the air.

Director Orson Krennic, head of the Empire’s Advanced Weapons Research and creator of the Death Star itself, pulled himself gently out of the grasp of his purpose-designed masturbation droid and refastened his pristine white trousers. A tap of a button, and a whooshing sound, and the grey material covering the cup disappeared, along with the traces of him: sucked down the tube it was attached to, to another secret compartment inside, to be disposed of discreetly. More buttons: the arm folded in on itself, and the droid rolled back into place.

Krennic ran a hand back through his damp, silvery brown hair. Stood up, on slightly shaky legs. Waved the protocol droid away; summoned the cleanup droid to dispose of the glove, wipe down the console, fix the mess he had made on the floor. Infuse the air with some clinical scent that would bring him back to his senses.

Before heading to the shower, however, Orson Krennic stopped at his console to do two things. A flurry of fingers over the keys, and the recordings from the surveillance cameras were gone; as a precaution, he’d manually reset them later. Nobody needed to see him making a fool of himself.

After that, he tapped at the console again. The image of Jyn Erso filled the screen. Eyes defiant, shoulders thrown back; on her way to death and disaster, no doubt. Krennic’s cock twitched faintly with the memory of release, and for the first time all day, a small smile played along his cruel mouth.

One day, he would meet her again. And this time, one of them would triumph.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I altered the prompt very slightly to emphasise that Jyn is a grown woman when the image of her is fixed in Krennic’s mind: he did not recognise her and only found out who she was later. This shouldn’t *have* to be emphasised because this ship is very clearly about two adults, but I am stating it here for the avoidance of any doubt whatsoever.


End file.
